The Hot Plate Escapades
by streco
Summary: Mark and Roger get drunk... and they accept their hot plate as their lord. And there are commandments. DRUNKEN!fic. Starring James Earl Jones as the voice of the hot plate, Christopher Walken as the voice of the refrigerator, and Johnny Depp as the stove.
1. The Beginning

_**The Hot Plate Escapade**_

_Summary: Mark and Roger get drunk... and they accept their hot plate as their lord. DRUNKEN!fic. Starring James Earl Jones as the voice of the hot plate, Christopher Walken as the voice of the refrigerator, and Johnny Depp as the stove._

Me and Mark got _drunk _the other day... the hot plate _said_ some things... we signed some _contracts_... and then all of a sudden, it's our lord.

1. The Beginning

— —

There is a God—Mark brought home alcohol.

That evening, I was going to angst for a few hours, and then eat some cereal, and then possibly angst some more. I was going to attempt to drown myself in the shower, or hang myself with tooth floss from my lawnmower, or maybe even strangle myself with a honkytonk badonkadonk. However, when the vodka came into the situation, I was _not _going to angst. Alcohol in our loft is a cause for celebration, not angsting. Of course, _last _time we got to celebrating the presence of alcohol was... ah... glum.

No more alcohol for two years. I was at loss... and I angsted a _lot_.

We got so very wasted, and suddenly, the room was speaking to us. The inanimate objects of our house were _speaking to us. _

"Maybe the vodka I found is—"

"You _found?_ You told me you bought it with your own money! I was so proud for five minutes!"

"No, _silly_," he hissed at me... Mark can't hold his alcohol or _handle _alcohol. "I found it! It was that really strong, straight stuff that Collins left that time—remember?"

My thoughts ran back to Christmas two years ago—Mark and I, partying with lamps, screaming "I can't hold me ale!" and wearing lipstick and eyeshadow as well, as we polka danced with our lighting.

Long story.

Don't even ask me about the penguins.

I slapped my forehead and threw my vodka angrily at the floor, before realizing just what I'd done and then dove for it, making a loud thud, but still saving the sweet beverage of gleeful indulgence. "You idiot! Collins is going to _muuuuuurder _us! Ahhhhhh! He doesn't like us to handle his alcohol—remember the last time two Christmases ago? He walked _in _on us with the lamps, and—and the penguins!"

"_What _about the penguins? There were penguins?"

"DON'T ASK ME ABOUT THE PENGUINS!" I waved my hands flamboyantly and spit everywhere. "That's not the point! Collins is going to strip off our skin piece by piece, and slap it on a big old-fashioned grill and serve it up to the penguins from the party! And the penguins are going to peck at it with their little orange beaks and squeak, 'Tweet tweet tweet!' Even though they don't like it! And that's _obviously _the translation for, 'I love this, thank you Uncle Collins!' in penguinese, because certain breeds of penguins are obviously human flesh devours, and the penguins we had at _our _party only feasted upon radio cables! Collins _told _us to—"

Mark blinked. "Uncle Collins? Collins is a _penguin?_"

I narrowed my eyes. "Yes. YOU DON'T REMEMBER THIS? You drunkard!"

"Roger—"

"YOU SCUMLICKERBOBBYPINSMASHERPUMPKINZEBRARIDER!"

"Roger," Mark began, and I let him speak this time. He swayed dangerously and his eyelids fluttered from obvious dipsomania. "You are _druuuunk._"

"_No_," I retorted stupidly, waving my head in his face, "_yoooooou _are _druuuuunk_."

"No, you are—"

DIIIIING.

"AHHHHHH!" I screamed and waved my arms even more flamboyantly than before, my legs also swinging wildly as I fell off my chair, landing with a long _thunk _on the floor. "THE BRITISH ARE COMING, MARKY JANE!"

"I told you not to CALL ME THAT!" he threw a pen at me and it puncture my EYE! I waved my arms in my face, trying desperately to get the stupid thing out of my _eye_, for it was puncturing my retinas, and I've had pretty bad retinas since I was five. "And it's _just _an instant message."

"Oh. I knew that," I said, confidently as I regained my balance and returned to my feet, rocking for a moment but then steading myself and making it to my chair safely.

"Sure, whatever, _loser_." He put his hand up in my face, and I immaturely licked it.

"EWWW!" he cried, wiping his hands frantically on his pants. "You gave me RAAAABIES! HEPATITIS! INSOMNIA! HERPES! THE MUFFIN MAN! THE DISEASE OF THE MOLE PEOPLE! YOU'RE GIVING ME ALL THESE DISEASES YOU FIEND!" he shoved me off my chair, leaving me, once again, in need of balance. All of this standing and falling was doing a number on my thighs. I must have lost ten pounds that day.

"Lookie here," he cried, flipping his wrist, "it's Hot Plate God."

"Hot Gate Shot?" I asked. "Do you _know _anyone Hot Gate Shot?"

"_NO_, Hot Plate God."

"Well do you know—"

"_No._"

"READ THE MESSAGE!" the room boomed.

So we did. We always listen to our room when it speaks—don't you?

**Hot Plate God: **Bow before thy God!  
**Boho Boyz: **Um...

Mark looked at me, as if asking what he should type. I shoved him away and began to type.

**Boho Boyz: **DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE HOT PLATE GOD! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE ELECTRICAL APPLIANCES! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE LITTLE CHILDREN SKIPPING IN THE MEADOW WITH PINK APRONY DRESSES, AND FROU-FROU DIARIES! DIIIIIIIE PEOPLE WITH PINK SCARVES! (Sorry Marky Jane) DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE FLESH-DEVOURING PENGUINS! DIIIIIIIE PEOPLE WITH ORANGE NOSTRIL HAIR! AND DIIIIIIIIIIIIE DONALD TRUMP! DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE298730293874psisuyr

I glared at Mark as he ended my speech and ruined my groove. So, as he hit enter, I persistently banged on the keyboard with my fists in perfect timing.

**Boho Boyz: **cxkxjcqwkdzsji  
**Boho Boyz: **983w745pouisertpioagfphsfw3  
**Boho Boyz: **oau098  
**Hot Plate God: **ENOUGH!!!

Mark glared at me again and took the keyboard back over to him, shadowing over it like some evil older brother. He typed with two fingers and glared at me as he did it, and it was kind of scary. I whimpered like a little child and went to find my bunny slippers, Ronald and Reagan. Upon returning, I found the following three IMs.

**Boho Boyz: **Sorry, that was Roger.  
**Boho Boyz: **Who is speaking?  
**Hot Plate God: **Your Hot Plate!

Mark and I glanced nervously our shoulders and saw the hot plate, ablaze in blue flame. A metallic voice ran through the kitchen. "I speak to thou through thy instant message software, turn back to thy computer device immediately and heed to My warnings and words of awesomeness and shweetness!"

Mark, clearly drunken, looked at the hot plate angrily with his eyebrows knitted together. "Why can't you just talk to us in this scary voice?" he challenged, slurring all the way through the sentence.

"DO NOT QUESTION THE GOD!" the hot plate, with a voice that sounded oddly like Jams Earl Jones', fired back, and that was all I needed—I sunk down in my chair and turned back to the computer.

"Mark, I think we better listen to him," I mumbled, and Mark nodded, almost falling out of his chair. Man, we would _so _fail a DUI test right now.

Sighing frustratedly that our appliances were speaking _a_gain, we clicked the screen back open and observed as words appeared before us. Apparently this odd hot plate wanted to speak to drunken Mark and Roger... which was quite odd. If I ever told my mom that I'd had a conversation with a hot plate, I'm pretty sure she'd chuck me in a loony bin.

And lo, we read.

**Hot Plate God: **I have ten commandments for you. Oblige to them and worship Me on a weekly basis, as according to these commandments that are of the number ten. READ NOW!

**A/N:** This was too long, so we had to separate it into two parts. Next up—the Ten Commandments of the Hot Plate God.

Until next time—

Sara and Steph.


	2. The End

_**The Hot Plate Escapades**_

2. The End

My fingers froze on the keyboard and I watched as the _Hot Plate God is typing _format scrolled at the bottom of the IM window. We waited nervously with bated breath as the "Hot Plate God" took a very long time to type... making my drunken mind question whether it had hands or not. I was about to get up and look, but then the little dingy thing went off and there was a new instant message.

**Hot Plate God:** _1. I am the Lord thy Hot Plate, thou shalt not have strange gods before Me._

Once again, Mark and I looked at the Hot Plate, which I am now considering capitalized because of the way it was addressing itself. "Why are you being a stupidhead?" Mark asked it, walking over and tapping the top of it. Suddenly, he screeched, and then he staggered away from the kitchen, sporting some nice burns on his hand.

"Do not question the Hot Plate," I mocked, screwing up my face and macho-izing my voice.

Mark and I sniggered under our breath and turned back to the computer.

**Hot Plate God: **_2. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy Hot Plate in vain._

A loud, intoxicated laugh was emitted from Mark, as he spit out the vodka that Collins had left by "accident". "HOLY HOT PLATE!" he shouted like the Marky Jane (don't tell him I call him that, he gets so mad, hence my damaged retinas) he is, and then clenched his heart and fell off the table.

And suddenly, Mark's hair lit on lavender shaded flame. He screamed, I laughed, we both cried. Him of pain, me of blissful joy. See, I was wise enough to heed the Hot Plate's words.

I grew up until I was three—by the time I was that age, I was a very well-spoken man. I knew what antidisestablishmentarianismmeant, I had a serious girlfriend—she was twenty-eight and expecting our first child, and I also had a very steady job delivering pizzas, the three-year-old that I was. I carried them in a knapsack as I walked down the highway, or took my go-cart. The wind would blow in my long luscious hair.

But enough about me!

When Mark's head was extinguished, which involved him beating several hard surfaces around the head, and breaking his glasses and hang on with one ear—which gave him a very drunk and sordid appearance. When all was said and done, we turned back to the screen, obedient puppies that we were.

**Hot Plate God: **_Tres. Keep holy the Hot Plate ritual/worship day, Wednesday, because, back in the day, it was a Wednesday. And Wednesday is the most difficult to spell, and I am evil when it comes to spelling. Hot plates have a very difficult time typing, you see, for We don't have hands, it is a fault that even your God the Hot Plate has... and so, you must all chop off your hands, so you are all lesser than I._

So Mark and I did chop off our hands, but when we looked back down at them when we were done, HA, they were back. The Hot Plate gave us new powers. "For your obedience, I shall grant you new hands, and give you special powers! Roger, the hair. It's very sexy. Mark... the..." he stopped. "The camera. Because technology is hip... like Roger."

I bowed. "Thank you, O Wise One."

"But for your _disobedience,_" he thundered, and then smothered Mark's name with a cough, "I shall light your heads ablaze, with lavender flames, for lavender is thine god's favorite color. And it brings out Roger's striking green eyes."

I bowed again, and I blushed. "I thank Thee, O Mighty God, for Your wonderful gifts and Your wonderful compliments, and bag of complimentary peanuts that I found in my pants earlier." I nodded when Mark looked at me, a little freaked out. "Yes, it's true, there were nuts in my pants. And they were _delicious_, O Hot Plate God."

"That actually wasn't My idea," admitted the Hot Plate, in what I imagined to be a bashful voice.

"Then _who_—"

The refrigerator, who sounded a bit like Christopher Walken, chuckled, and then coughed loudly.

Mark, who seemed grumpity that he wasn't being paid attention to, grunted and pointed toward the screen as it _ding_-_a-doodle_d.

**Hot Plate God:** _4. Honor thy Refrigerator and thy Stove, for They are mighty appliances and are My henchmen. You disrespected Them, you disrespect Me. Whatever you do to the least of My henchmen, you have done unto Me._

Mark threw a donut from behind the computer monitor at the stove, and it opened and then blew flames at us. The flames danced merrily around me, while they managed to singe Mark and give him third degree burns on his face and hands. "We loooove you Roger," chanted the dancing purple flames.

"THEY'RE LAVENDER!" the Hot Plate James Earl Jones shouted. "Bwahaha! Embrace the lavender fury!" We looked at each other nervously. "Roger, your eyes are _popping_."

A longing sigh escaped the Stove, which sounded like Johnny Depp speaking with a British accent. "So _sexy_. Oh, my Lord, Hot Plate, he's so dreamy!"

_DONG! _The computer made a different sound this time.

**Hot Plate God: **_5. Thou shalt not kill each other, for if there were no Roger and there were no Mark, there would be no worshippers of the Hot Plate God, or His Refrigerator and Stove henchmen—hence, the Hot Plate God would be no longer._

"Which would be very bad," Mark prompted, trying very hard to kiss ass.

"YOU SNARKY BASTARD!" the Hot Plate roared, "HOW _DARE _YOU MOCK ME!"

"No, my Lord," said Mark quickly, holding up his hands in surrender, "I would _never_—"

"YOU WILL _PAY_ FOR YOUR SNARKY ATTITUDE!" the Hot Plate cried evilly.

"If I may intervene," I interrupted, stepping in so as to save Mark's face and body from ham. I mean _harm_. There's nothing wrong with ham! I sincerely mean it! Unless...you are a vegetarian, which I was for the three years in which I grew up...but that is a story longer that the Neverending Story of NOTENDINGNESS.

"Yes?" the Hot Plate cooed, scooting closer over the counter towards me.

"_Ahem_. Well, err, yes," I said and, in what I hoped was a pleading voice, continued, "could you perhaps, _not_ harm Marky Jane?"

The Hot Plate and the other appliances sniggered. "Is that what he is really called?" it asked.

"Well...uh...sure, why not."

NEEEEEEEEEXT COMMANDMENT.

**Hot Plate God: **_6. Thou shalt not commit electrical homicide to thy room mate, or anyone for that matter. It's just sick and wrong... and it does not please the Hot Plate God._

Silently, Mark and I looked at each other and then back at the screen, not needing to dwell upon this commandment. Quite simple, actually.

**Hot Plate God: **OMG, Roger, you so sexy.  
**Hot Plate God: **Sorry, that was the microwave.

"No it wasn't!" cried the microwave shrilly, and I smiled sheepishly at it. "Okay... maybe it was..."

"But it was me too," the Stove confessed. "Just smile at me, please!"

The Fridge rattled. "And I."

"A mi tambien," muttered some Mexican appliance.

"Well," I said, "I guess I'm just gonna have to tap you all."

"NO!"

_DING._

**Not Plate God: **7. Rodgger must bang da totstar, NOWski.

My face fell and I looked hesitantly at Mark, wondering if I should ask him how to go about banging a toaster, when I realized that it did not say Hot Plate God, but _Not _Plate God. Looking over at the toaster, I shook my head, disappointed, and wagged my finger at the toaster. "Naughty, naughty, toaster. I shall now punish you by... tapping you!"

"NO!"

**Hot Plate God: **_7. Thou shalt not steal another hot plate to replace thy Hot Plate. This would make Me very angry and result in much smiting._

_8. Thou shalt not, like, lie to the Hot Plate, because that is totally uncool, dude. I am watching you._

"Well, _that's_ mildly creepy," Mark commented. I shook my head and indicated the screen. We continued to read.

**Hot Plate God:**_9.Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's hot plate, for there is no hot plate greater than I, or can hold a match to Me and My godliness._

"Do our neighbor's _have_ hot plates?" I asked Mark, who shrugged. Back to reading...

**Hot Plate God:**_10. Though shalt not covet thy neighbor's appliances, because your Fridge and Stove are already pretty frickin' good._

_12. The Hot Plate rules, woot._

"Uhh..." said Mark hesitantly, "...you skipped one."

"WHAT?!" the Refrigerator screamed. "HOW DARE YOU SAY SUCH AN OFFENSIVE REMARK TO MINE LORD HOT PLATE! SOMETHING SO OFFENSIVE! AND WHO ARE YOU TO TALK? YOU TYPE WITH YOUR FISTS!"

"That was _Roger_!" Mark shriefled like a little kid point an accusitory finger at me.

"Yeah," said the Stove, "but it _hottttttt_ when he did it."

"In comparison to when _I_ did it? I never did it!" Mark yelped defiantly.

"Did WHAT?" inquired the toaster, the eavesdropper of all kitchen appliances. "We ALL know you've never even rounded second BASE with anyone!"

"ACTUALLY," called the lawnmower from the yard outside, "HE'S NEVER EVEN BEEN TO _FIRST_! I WOULD KNOW—I WAS THERE! _EVERYONE _KNOWS A BOY ALWAYS BRINGS HIS LAWNMOWER ON HIS FIRST DATE!"

"Oh yeah..." said the iron, "I remember you told me about that. He showed up on his first date, and was like, 'We're gonna drive the _lawnmower_ to the prom.' And then the girl was all, 'But you don't have a sit-down.' Mark stupidly replied, 'Oh, _we'll_ work something out.'"

"Oh, yes," said the microwave, joining the conversation. "So he told her to get into the underside compartment, and she _listened_. And halfway through the ride there, she tried to get out to ask him if they were close, and the _blades_ were spinning and her _arm_ got all—"

"YEAH WE KNOW THE STORY!" Marky snapped.

I lit up a joint and grabbed the bowl of popcorn from the microwave, which giggled as I grazed its side with my arm.

"And THEN," continued the rather persistent iron, "all the kids at school called him LAWNMOWER KID! And that's why no decent girl will touch him."

"No DECENT girl?" asked the toaster indignantly. "How about 'NO GIRL PERIOD'?"

Everyone agreed on this and eventually we all calmed down. But I still had half a bowl of popcorn to go, so I decided to stoke the fire, if you will.

"_Maureen_ was a decent girl," I muttered, just loud enough for EVERYONE in the room to hear me.

The outcome of this statement was a very uproarious uproar. "MAUREEN NEVER _TOUCHED_ MARK!" yelled the Refrigerator.

"YES SHE DID!" cried Mark. "YES SHE DIIIIIIIIID! I SHOULD KNOW! I WAS THERE! It was the _best _five minutes of my life!"

Everyone burst into simultaneous giggles. "You only lasted _five_ minutes?" guffawed the stove.

"No he didn't!" shouted the TV in Mark's room. "There was _no_ activity in here!"

"Oh yeah?" challenged Mark. He pointed to me again. "Well what did _ROGER'S_ TV see then? HMMM?"

Mark _really _needs to understand the shit he gets himself in before he does so. Challenging the One Who Bangs Women is not a good thing to do, if you are the One Who Does Not Bang Women, "Roger's TV is dead," said the stove knowingly. I shivered. "But we don't like to talk about it," it added.

"Yeah," said an appliance from the other room. "Everything Roger taps dies."

The microwave squeaked with fright. Everyone stared. "What? I saw a _mouse_."

I shook my head. "You can ask the curtains," I suggested to Mark, thinking of my beautiful satin and floral girls hanging off of the stainless steel rods—just in case a tornado happened to rip through New York City... the rods would not stain. I knew my girls would stick by me, for they are beautiful and covered in flowers.

"I thought we were only speaking to _appliances_," Mark commented.

"Ahh, we're drunk anyway. Oh _curtains_!" I called.

"Yes, master!" they called back, "We love you, master!"

_I know, chicks. _I smiled at my lovely curtains. Did I mention how floral they are today? "Have I mentioned how floral you guys look today?" I mentioned, mirroring my thoughts to the present time. They laughed, and I felt myself get all excited. "Mark would like to know how much action I get."

I heard the curtains _giggle._ "Why? Is he..._interested_?" asked Martha, the first curtain.

"No, no," I assured them. "I haven't banged him."

"_Yet_," added the Hot Plate.

"What do you mean?" I asked nervously, biting my lip and fearing the words. "Please tell me, dear Lord, one who is so shiny and heated. And new. And from Mark's mother. And beautiful." I seriously didn't want to end up banging Mark anytime soon, for it would give me nightmares and tears.

"I have plans for you," and then the Hot Plate grew eyes and winked, "O Sexy One."

And then the appliances all shut up.

And as I took one last longing look at the computer screen, so full of html and vibrant colors, I saw one IM that I hadn't seen before, alone on the background of Mark and some photoshopped girl on Collins' body. I shrieked and collapsed, twitching at the memory this instant message triggered.

**Hot Plate God: **What about the penguins?

**A/N: **–giggles–

**The Our Hot Plate**

Our Hot Plate  
Who art in kitchen  
Hallowed be thy heat.  
Thy coffee come  
Thy will be drank  
In the loft  
As is done in the warehouse.  
Give us each day our daily soup,  
And forgive us our fruit baskets  
As we forgive those  
Who do not worship thou.  
Lead us not into cremation  
But deliver us from  
Non-caffeinated beverages  
AMEN.

So, I'd like to say one thing.

The whole paragraph that follows "DON'T ASK ME ABOUT THE PENGUINS!" great thanks to Sara for _acting that out _and proceeding to give me nightmares and scar my mind. She actually _did _wave her arms quite flamboyantly and shouted it in a high pitched voice.

Haha, well we had WAY too much fun... honestly.

RENT TOMORROW! –SQUEE–

Thanks for reading.

–Steph  
(And Sara)


End file.
